


Of The Silver'ed Tongue.

by CaveCarson (TinySparks)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Anger, Angry Loki, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Diary/Journal, Drabble, Gen, Identity Issues, Insanity, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Jötunn Loki, Loki - Freeform, Loki Angst, Loki Feels, Loki Has Issues, Loki lives in New York, Manipulative Loki, Marvel Norse Lore, Memory Loss, Mental Instability, Miðgarðr | Midgard, One Shot, One Shot Collection, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers (2012), Reformed Loki, The Power of Words, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 01:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1800961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinySparks/pseuds/CaveCarson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and one-shots regarding our dear, darling Silvertongue~. Varying POV.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Originally written in connection with the twitter Loki RP account @GodOfPuddings).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

_Prologue._

 

The God sits atop a mountain range, cold wind swirling about him, deafening. Surveying the land, his lips twitch into an uneasy smile. Jötunheimr: realm of ice, barren, betrayed... He felt an inner calm here, a sense of... Self? This puzzled him greatly. He had no recollection of setting foot here, in all his long years. As snowflakes lay melting upon his cheeks, an unsettling sense of déjà vu teased his broken memory.

He watched a snow eagle dive upon its quarry, marvelling that anything could survive in this wasteland. Having met no beings in Jötunheimr, he had briefly considered crossing the river Ífingr, moving onward to Asgard. Oh, the tales of merriment, drinking in the great hall! Of Yggdrasil's strong, ancient beauty. Of Gods, Goddesses... Those alike himself, in name, if not nature.

No... Asgard could wait. Jötunheimr held him in her icy grasp, frozen caresses beguiling, pleading with him to stay. Examining the curious blue cast of his flesh, he resolved to return to Midgard before making any rash judgements as to permanent relocation. Further clues to his obscured past lay upon that damnable rock, as, inexplicably, did the man who called him 'Brother'.


	2. Falling.

Here, lay I, clutching at bedlinen, obsessive repetition; sliding fabric betwixt forefinger and thumb - holding on to this silken reminder of the tangible; 'Tis of grandest struggles to stay in the now... My past beckons as a chasm of familiarity, begging me towards its vile, eternal embrace. Otherwise, what is there? What course might I take? What pains refrain from revealing themselves, gloating, beneath merriment's mask, as fresh bruises not yet bloomed?

 

Suspicions, always, always...

 

I waste away, victim of my own failings.

 

Is it possible to give oneself to another, whilst maintaining any sort of self? How can it be so, to be reviled by so many, yet adored by the one, the /only/ one... For there is only one, and all else is lies. How? I must be hallucinating... Yes, yes!; it is all a dream - oh, what a fabulous cliché!

 

See now, my hand is slipping, slipped - will you not catch me? My love, my love... Bound in silken sheets, I fall into the abyss...

 

...And my~, how it _glitters_.


	3. On Mankind...

_'On Mankind: Some Points of Observation by an Offworlder'._

 

...Totems. Totems all around. The meaning projected onto an object, or a beast, to become representative of that which is sacred, unbesmirchable. Surprising, often, what power such items possess over man, what symbols he chooses to adopt as close to his heart. In times past, flora and fauna sufficed to satisfy the needs for such objects, the totems. Gods lived in the earth, in the skies, in chlorophyll and in blood. And for a time, this was good; this sufficed. Much, much later in man's journey came the clanking gods of steel, of wheel, of industry, of progress: The Manchester Gods. What war ensued... Ah, but that is a tale for another time. Where was I? Ah, yes - totem. Think of the items you keep close about your person. You slip them into your pockets, into your purse, your bag, your drawer, your safety deposit box - whatever. You panic when they are misplaced - you have lost a part of yourself, moulded out of plastic and metal. You are cyborgs, dears! How enthralling a notion. I do so love the notion of artificial intelligence... Ah, tangents. Right. Your totems, they have changed, as you have changed. Some still carry a lucky rabbit's paw, harking back to days of yore. What "luck" a portion of a deceased mammal might bring is quite beyond my amusement, I must say. I do not believe in "luck" as you understand it. Luck, as most commonly described, implies some external agent, as if good luck and bad luck are the gift or punishment of spirits. I know of "spirits". Believe me when I tell you that they have no interest whatsoever in the dull ramblings of man's daily life. Truly. 

T'would be wiser to speak of "chance" than luck, as chance does not come heavy-burdened by the superstitious leanings of bygone eras. I mean, really, people? You still believe in all of this mumbo-jumbo? What of rationality? Of the laws of physics? Beings from another world walk among you, and you fly to your ancestor's pre-scientific worldview, and suddenly - behold! Gods walk among us! Oh, you are ever so darling that you would believe that what is different to you is of course rooted in mysticism, rather than rational, testable... Rambling off again, eh? Right. Focus.

/Chance/. Chance. Chance. Infinite outcomes, possibilities. The existence of the multiverse, of encounters with one's own parallels confirms that the pathways available are astoundingly more diverse than previous known. I do sometimes wonder what effect all of this information will have - indeed, is having - on the human mind. The mortals with whom I have engaged are, on the whole, remarkably willing to accept these frankly mind-bending concepts with very little protestation. Perhaps it is easier to smile and nod than to attempt to reach beneath the surface of such a conundrum... I once heard a man say, "If I don't think about it, it's not a problem". Such keen philosophers you have produced.

However - there is /always/ a however - there is more to mankind than a trembling superstition; Than a clinging to the old ways, when gods controlled the weather - don't get me wrong, goldilocks certainly can whip up a storm - but now it is /different/. So very different. I meet those of my own kind who yet pine for the olden days of veneration, of cowering ignorant mortals, afraid of their own shadows. Not understanding what a shadow /is/. I yearn not for that past vision of mankind. That cretinous ignorance, that willing to defer to a seemingly greater power is exactly what made me /despise/ such creatures. But there are those among you who seek to ask /why/ the universe is the way it is, not simply to live obliviously in it. There are those who wish to change, to develop, to bend the universe to their will, in however small a way - they are the ones who interest me. Atoms are atoms; "Magic" is but another way of describing what you know as physical, chemical, biological scientific phenomena. If you were to but study it objectively, you would, in time, be able to comprehend such. But... Ehe. There would take some fleet-swift move to pin /me/ down. Lab rat I am not.

I believe I have quite rambled myself out, for tonight. Often I feel the urge to write such things as have traversed through mine mind while I have wandered ceaseless through parks, streets, buildings, people-watching, my favourite new pastime - all of your charming realm a playground for my enjoyment! Ah, ehehe, there it is; The irony of a "god" who orates on the perils of superstition... Oh, ho, ho. I do amuse myself, sometimes. I really, truly do.

\- _L. Friggason._


	4. A Villain Reformed*.

…Who, me? Attempt to conquer a realm to claim as my very own? Preposterous! I would never do such a thing.

 

Not now.

 

Not when I have my own delusional kingdom to return to, at any time I wish. [ _Lo taps his skull, lips twisted into a taut smile._ ] ...Doubtless, I’ve had my moments – but I am /utterly/ reformed, I assure you.

 

Such triflings occurred only in my less self-confident days. Oh, of course, many of my parallels are still dead set on the idea – conquer a realm, sit on the throne, be a smug bastard for the rest of eternity, take what daddy would not give, blahblahblah – but seriously, let’s try to be just a little grown up about this, and move on; Move forward. I’ve met with an almost tragic level of failure in several different ‘verses, and surprisingly enough, the other players rarely vary: the Starks, the Widows, the Bartons - and of course, the Thors... I refuse to spend the rest of my days playing out the same misadventures over, and over again.

 

Therefore, it is I who must change, and believe me, I really have. Reformed, to the /best/ of my ability. Though, I will be forever bound in some way to heed the call of my counterparts, when it is asked of me, for it is impossible to deny completely the quintessence of self...

 

But, as long as I shall grace this charming rock with my presence, I will make no claim to its sovereignty. I’m doing fairly well at living a life of luxury as it is – and the stars know that I have no wish to become embroiled with – perish the thought - responsibility. Let brother take care of that, as and when he will. I, on the other hand, am quite inspired by this notion of living out my days as – how do they call it? – a ‘playboy’? I cannot help but think I might just have been built for the purpose; Sounds glorious enough for me.

 

 

 

 

[*Disclaimer: Above statement _may_ be a pack of complete bullshit. Hrrm...]


	5. On The Mechanics of Power.

[ _Cool evening breeze through the sash window, hair tied tightly, not a whisp free to disturb. Dark, silken robe, golden sash bound tightly about the waist. White wine: 1811 Chateau d’Yquem, cut glass, spindly stem. Adequate, he thinks. His fingertips trace the embossed grooves of the leather-bound journal atop his desk, pursuing the curls of fading gilt – a ritual, performed since time immemorial. Here, he writes; his innermost being laid out in flowing ink, words as crucial to him as the blood of his veins. Sessions of reflection, circumspection, and sometimes confession having sustained him during some of the darker periods of his consciousness. He creases the journal’s cracked spine, licks forefinger and thumb to catch at a leaf, smoothes palm over the fresh, virgin parchment. Elaborately cursive lettering scratched hard upon the page, a rapid and urgent deflowerment in ink._ ]

 

“On The Mechanics of Power,” he begins. 

“The difference between a good ruler and a poor ruler is around three heartbeats.  
A good ruler doesn’t hesitate. He follows his instincts, and he certainly doesn’t make mistakes. A good ruler does not surround himself with those who are ideologically capable of recognising a mistake by his hand. His followers will fight amongst themselves to claim responsibility for such errors until a willing sacrifice emerges, victorious in their vulgar martyrdom.” 

“A good ruler is not so foolish as to allow his fallibility to be seen by his subjects.  
He keeps his cards close to his chest. The popular myths regarding his whims, preferences and peculiarities originate, in fact, from himself. By allowing fabrications to be cultivated, he masks his true Achilles’ heel, his true desires, his true intentions.”

“A good ruler seeks no approval.  
Stalwart in his belief, comfortable in his schemes, he is wholly independent of the need to appease. This frees him from wasting his precious time on wheedling compliments from entirely irrelevant individuals.”

“His machinations are completely robust.  
A whisper in an ear here, an enemy created there… Each of these interactions plays its part in his grand plan, his schema majestueux. There is no room for regret in his being, only perseverance. His mission will be understood, in time – no approval needed, though, of course. It will be sufficient to know that his intrigues played out exactly as he has planned. Casting his die, he knows how it will fall. Prescience is unnecessary; following an eternity spent grappling with the reigns of destiny, there is only one possible outcome: utter and complete acquiescence to his purpose. Divine desideratum.”

“The time is not yet right, but close, so close he can taste it – the sweet bitterness of iron upon the tongue. A handful more moves must be made before he will stand above all others, face glistening with rapture’s sweet perspiration, teeth gleaming out of a prideful smile, as the word rolls from his silvery tongue: ‘Checkmate’ - only one king left upon the board... All words, simply words – but it is words which form the basis of action, and in both one must be exceedingly careful. To be a poor ruler is to be no ruler at all.”

 

[ _He waits patiently for the ink to dry, handling the journal with care as he mutters a brief incantation: The journal disappears from sight. Attention is returned to the near-emptied bottle, the man finding himself gladly soothed by this latest monographical outburst._ ]


	6. Snake.

Bad times, my friends. Very bad times for old Lo…ki.

Sssssss~… Mh? Because 'why'? Because I feel as if my skull were about to bloody /explode/. I come to tremble with wrath, with spite, unkempt fury – and all directed toward myself. I… I disgust myself. I make myself /sick/. Yes, yes, introspection, we’re all guilty of it. Some of us happen to be guilty of much more than that, but a smile and a smooth word and you can charm reprieve from most anyone, I’ve found – Asgardians notwithstanding. Yes, hello, humans. Yes, I’m living among you now. Don’t even think to come pester me unless I approach you first. See? It could happen. I’ve given you hope: We can all dream.

And so, I was thinking… 

Did you know that there are dolls made in my image? …In the spell-struck beauty of an Æsir man, of course. Familiar enough; These people like their gods to be made in their image…

So. Yes. Dolls. Not… not vessel symbols, not summoning tokens. Not even little wax figurines with pins stuck through them!

…/Dolls/. For /children/.

It’s quite enough to ruin a man, that knowledge, don’t you think? To live a thousand years and to have it come to this. 

So blisteringly furious with myself, all that I can do to bear it is to walk endless miles of silence in the cities of the mind. My feet pace New York concrete, my eyes see the prideful Ásgarðr of my childhood… My, ah, /father/’s kingdom… Not to speak of the neighbour realms, the people of which only too pleased to strike endless bargains with me, to attempt in outwitting Cunning Prince Loptr… And I never could resist a gamble. 

Ah~… The roaring forges of Svartálfaheimr, the wisdom of Vanaheimr, though her lot were long bow-beaten to Óðinn’s rule, even in my childhood... These places, these peoples… Recollection wearies me, even so. Is it true that I feel more ‘at home’ in this, your Earth-realm than the others I have known? I know… not. Exhaustion addles an already fragile mind, tenuous… tenuous; A boulder upheld by an ant.

I should be so much more than this… More than myth, more than stories. What have I become, but a shadow of my own reputation; A trademark. Subject to paparazzi, no less – oh, the horror! What flavour syrup does the alien take in his frappuccino… Where is the dignity in that?! What to be proud of, there? 

I’ll tell you what I cannot stand – limitations. My own, obviously. So, so limited… Like a psychic straightjacket. What use the shifting of appearance if the man inside remains the same? 

The potential is there, I know it. But… But /Loki/; That is your name, that is your burden. You may ‘change’ all you wish. Time and again, like a serpent shedding his skin. Crawl on your belly, down in the filth where you’re most familiar, hissing at the heels of power, of respect. Perhaps you can trick someone into getting close enough for you to draw blood. They’ll have to notice you then, eh? …Pathetic.

Mm~… Still it throbs, this joke of a mind. And… I cannot decide whether it is motivation I lack, or actual purpose. This feeling, it’s not /dire/, but it’s well… It’s sort of akin to wading around in a vat of jelly with a high gelatine content. Struggling to move quite as fluidly as one would like. Knowing you have some sickly, sticky grot sliding around you, getting inside the folds of your garments, touching your skin – eurrrgh.

I… I… Sssss~! An anger that throbs, furious with the state of things, the state of oneself… wandering around waiting for inspiration to strike like a lovelorn artist all out of kilter with his muse. Staggering from one scene to the next, hoping… Hoping… Put me out of my misery, won’t you? Please?

Miserable, really. 

Always dissipates, that fury... I’ll gnash and spit and pace as a beast of the wild, and… breathe. Breathe in, out. Tremble, quake. Feel the sting of tears about the eyes – oh! Sobbing, my old familiar sore-eyed friend. I bite my lips into a chapped parody of seduction; I forget to eat, all I taste is iron. How many times have we been here before? 

I’ve never actually /feared/ for my mental state. All I have is what’s inside this fractured skull, and so I must make the most of it, whatever the outcome. I… I just… I simply wonder sometimes what kind of sick bastard would write out my life to be such a wreck as it has been. That what good I have so thoroughly conned into my arms can play second fiddle to my own mental fractures? Why make me suffer so?

“ _Because snakes belong down here, Loki_.”

“ _Down in the dirt, the Prince of Lies is most at home. The snug warmth of rotting shit burying him; face down for the rest of thine immortal days._ ” 

“ _Come in, Liesmith: We’ve missed you so~!_ ”

…And then I wretch violently on the sidewalk, with nothing to give but sputtering acid, and I’m seeing stars, stars… and I’m back, back in Manhattan, and suddenly I am nothing at all but a man in a body in a street in a city on a planet in a universe that I can barely comprehend.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for your time spent reading, for your comments, kudos, and subscriptions!
> 
> Wishing you a 'Marvellous' day~ x, @Iron_Mun


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